


How Soon The Lights Were Gone

by Lynchy8



Series: Fun (and sad!) little drabbles [7]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Cancer, M/M, Major Illness, Major character death - Freeform, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the following prompt on the kink meme:</p><p>Inspired by lyrics from Daughter's "Medicine":</p><p>"You've got a warm heart,<br/>You've got a beautiful brain,<br/>But it's disintegrating."</p><p>Enjolras has some sort of terminal illness that affects his brain function. It makes him overemotional and irrational, dulls his intelligence, robs him of all that brightness and brilliance and passion that Grantaire fell in love with. How Grantaire deals with caring for his boyfriend when he's a husk of that man is up to you, not to mention Enjolras' reaction to the dimming of what he so values in himself.</p><p>Break my heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Soon The Lights Were Gone

**Author's Note:**

> Needless to say this is not a happy fic.  
> It talks about cancer and end-of-life care in a fair amount of detail.
> 
> cw for mentions of suicide and brief discussion of euthenasia

_It won't be long now._  
Grantaire sat by the side of the bed, the book on his lap lying closed, discarded, as he stared into space. He wasn't sure how long he had been that way, how long his mind had wandered away from the present, from this room, this strange reality he had somehow found himself in.

The sheets on the bed stirred ever so slightly and the smallest whimper indicated that Enjolras was conscious.

Enjolras, who had once stood tall and proud, passion flowing through his veins, eyes flashing, was now reduced, his body drowning in blankets. The sheets brought more pain to his broken body than the comfort they were designed for.

His hair was thin and lank, greasy to the point of black in appearance, what was left of it. His eyes, once blue and sparkling, were now too large for his face and hadn’t opened fully for at least a week. If Grantaire closed his own brown eyes, he could remember Enjolras’s skin as it had been; the impression of marble, cheeks painted with fire and belief. Now that skin was pulled tight like cling film across his bones.

Carefully, Grantaire took up the plastic cup, angling the straw towards bruised lips so that Enjolras could take the smallest sips of water. The purple eyelids remained closed, the breathing taking on a slight rattle as the few drops of liquid were ingested.

Enjolras pulled his head away from the straw, a moan of discomfort, his face frowning in confusion

_Not long now._

This was cruel. The illness was a cruel thief that had stolen Enjolras and had left a shell behind.

+

It had started with a headache.

Despite their reputation, they didn’t actually argue as much as people made out. They both cared for each other too much. Grantaire had a terrible habit of wandering off the subject, his mind making blinding and dizzying connections between thoughts that was hard to keep track of unless you were paying attention. Initially, in the bad old days, Enjolras had very little interest in keeping up with the seemingly never ending personal monologue but once he had started to pay attention, once he started to listen, he had been drawn in, irresistibly attracted to a mind as fine as his own, if slightly less organised. Where Enjolras’s mind was a neat list with a full chapter index and glossary of terms, Grantaire’s was a tumbled mindmap.

Then one day Enjolras had just bellowed at the top of his lungs so the whole pub could hear, reducing everyone to silence. Would Grantaire please just shut the fuck up. Just for once. He wanted to know if Grantaire ever paused for breath or was he just incapable of recognising the difference between thought and speech.

Everyone had just stared at Enjolras in horror, in shock. Enjolras could be harsh but he had never been cruel and he had never, ever shouted at Grantaire like that.

Of course Enjolras had apologised and of course Grantaire had forgiven him. But it left everyone feeling awkward. Enjolras said he was tired, that he had a headache. It was a headache that didn’t ever seem to really go away. It made him bad tempered and unfocused. It came and went without warning. 

About two weeks afterwards, Grantaire came home and narrowly avoided being hit by “A Social History of the French Revolution” which had just been flung across the room in evident frustration.

“My fucking eyes just won’t work!” Enjolras had shouted in aggravation. Grantaire had made all the right sympathetic noises as well as a cup of tea in Enjolras’s favourite mug before bravely suggesting that maybe the headaches and the fuzzy eye sight were connected. Maybe Enjolras needed glasses.

He braced himself for an onslaught but what he got was a somewhat defeated sigh as Enjolras agreed.

+++

When Enjolras had rung him from the hospital it had been something of a shock. He hadn’t sounded particularly concerned. If anything, he was bored and frustrated, as though the whole exercise was a massive waste of his precious time. Because it was Enjolras he had played the whole thing down. It was probably nothing, probably routine. They were just going to run a few tests. The optician that had seen him hadn’t been very happy with the state of his left eye. He would be home later. No, Grantaire didn’t need to come to the hospital.

Grantaire had gone anyway.

‘A few tests’ had quickly escalated until Enjolras and Grantaire found themselves sitting in an office, holding hands tightly as the Oncologist delivered the truly devastating news. Both men had sat in complete silence. Tumor… malignant… nothing they could do…

+++

That had been five months ago, something that apparently should count as a victory as Enjolras had been told he would be dead within three. The aggressive cancer had spread quickly to the rest of his body like a voracious plague and now the anticipated lifespan of the most amazing and wonderful person Grantaire had ever met was measured in days rather than decades.

No person should be given a sell-by date. It was inhuman to make someone wait to die, knowing that they would only ever feel worse, never better.

+++

At first Enjolras had tried to carry on as normal. He had continued to attend his classes, completing his assignments and handing them in. He continued to go to meetings, but it wasn’t the same. It couldn’t ever be the same. 

Grantaire had tried, for Enjolras’s sake. He cried alone, despaired for the future by himself, but out there by Enjolras’s side, he forced himself to continue as though the love of his life wasn’t slowly having the life force drained from him.

There were some fairly obvious symptoms that were hard to ignore and now that he knew what was going on, he recognised other things that had previously gone unnoticed, slight changes that Enjolras had put in place perhaps unknowingly has he tried to compensate for his body’s failings.

He noticed how Enjolras relied on colours and shapes rather than detail as his depth perception and eyesight rendered items almost unrecognisable. He saw him referencing cue cards more and more rather than reciting things from memory. 

After three weeks, Enjolras stopped talking at the meetings altogether, preferring to sit and listen and make notes.

+++

Looking at him now, Grantaire wondered (not for the first time) whether Enjolras should have gone to Switzerland after all.

There had been something of an hysterical discussion involving an awful lot of crying and holding on both sides when Grantaire had come home early from Uni to find Enjolras researching Dignitas on the laptop. That was when it really hit home for Grantaire. That was when he realised that this was really happening. Enjolras was dying.

Enjolras didn’t look like he was dying. He was pale and had lost a bit of weight but at worst he looked like he had the flu. Enjolras couldn’t die. This was Enjolras!

They had held each other and cried together before collapsing in each other’s arms in exhaustion with the emotion of it all. Enjolras had whispered his confession to Grantaire, promising that he wouldn’t go to Switzerland, that he physically couldn’t do it, even if he could afford to (which they couldn’t).

“I’m a coward,” he gulped, clinging to Grantaire as though afraid he might vanish into thin air if he let go. 

“I don’t want to die, R, I don’t want to die. I have too much to do and it’s not fair!” Grantaire had tried to comfort him as best he could, holding him close, kissing him as though trying to commit the feel of his skin on his lips to his memory.

“All this time I thought I would be brave, that I could take on the world and do anything, that I was fearless. And now I know the truth. I face my death and I’m frightened.” His voice was fractured and miserable and it broke Grantaire’s heart.

Grantaire had held him tight, reciting over and over again into his hair that he was wonderful, that he was loved, that he couldn’t be anything other than perfect. Eventually Enjolras’s sobs had subsided and they had fallen asleep, exhausted.

So Enjolras chose to live, decided not to die at a time of his own choosing. He elected to dance to nature’s sad tune, a dirge, a march that dragged him ever onwards towards the dark. As Grantaire reached forward to brush tender fingertips down Enjolras’s temple, trying to provide some comfort to the shell in the bed before him, Grantaire couldn’t help but regret that choice.

+++

Enjolras had never wanted a Civil Partnership. He said it was an insult, a second class marriage, one that by its very name and nature set the relationship apart from "real" marriages.

It had hurt. Grantaire wanted to be with Enjolras in every sense. He wanted to be Enjolras's husband. He wanted to wear Enjolras's ring. But he loved Enjolras completely and a very large part of that glowing personality that he so admired related to his principles and his sense of right. Civil Partnerships were not right, were not enough, so they decided to hold out for marriage because their relationship deserved the real thing.

That was before. Things had changed.

It should have been a happy day. They were declaring their relationship in the most official way possible. All the same, it couldn't be anything other than bitter sweet. It wasn't the marriage they both wanted and they certainly weren’t celebrating the start of their lives together. It also couldn't be denied that a large part of their decision to do this involved practicality. Grantaire would then be officially recognised as next of kin.

Only the day before, Enjolras had been in hospital. It had become something of a macabre routine. Enjolras would be in pain, he would refuse to eat or drink and would become dehydrated until Grantaire would insist on calling the special number they had been given by the hospital. An ambulance would then take him in; he’d be hooked up to a drip, given a ridiculous amount of drugs and then, once he was stable, he’d be released again.

There was a particularly awkward moment when the registrar got to the bit about “Til death us do part” and then it was over. They were Civil Partners. Somehow this didn’t make Grantaire as happy as he thought it would. It felt like a defeat of sorts.

That night they curled up together on the sofa, eating chow mein from Enjolras’s favourite take out. Neither spoke, initially because they were otherwise engrossed in eating, but also because neither one felt much like saying anything. Finally, Enjolras put his fork down, taking a sip of coke before sighing.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his forehead. “I know this probably isn’t how you envisaged our first night together as husbands.” He made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat.

Grantaire put his fork down and reached out to pull Enjolras into his arms. He could feel the bones of Enjolras’s shoulders through his shirt as he held him tight against his chest.

“Hey, I have you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” he replied softly, kissing the top of Enjolras’s head. Silence returned between them.

“I wish we’d done this long ago.” Enjolras’s hoarse voice sounded broken, the words smothered and lost in the fabric of Grantaire’s sweater.

The next day, Grantaire helped Enjolras into the car and drove him to the beach. It was a long drive and Enjolras slept most of the way. It was worth it though. He parked as close to the promenade as he could, before they walked down onto the sand, Enjolras leaning heavily on Grantaire’s arm.

He sank down onto the pebbles just before the sand and Grantaire helped peel off his socks and shoes. Then they walked together and stood in the sea, the waves lapping round their ankles. It was a fresh, April day but the sun was out. Enjolras closed his eyes, breathing deep as he tipped his head back.

“I’m alive,” he murmured, stretching out his arms.

The seagulls cried overhead.

+++

The cancer took the sparkle out of Enjolras’s eyes. It took his mind and it took his heart. As the tumour pressed into Enjolras’s brain, it began to consume and destroy.

The fits of temper got progressively worse as Enjolras’s frustration increased. Enjolras, who had always been the voice of reason, suddenly became prone to fits of crying, mostly in anger but sometimes in sheer moments of despair. It was those times that scared Grantaire the most. All he could do was hold him, rubbing reassuring circles into his shoulders and murmuring useless, meaningless words. Mercifully, the sound of his voice seemed to help, seemed to calm Enjolras, even if they both knew that the promise of “it’ll be ok” was a complete lie.

It became harder to perform basic tasks that previously he had never thought about before. Enjolras struggled to make cups of tea as his co-ordination began to fail. His fingers shook too much to line up the buttons on his shirts so he took to wearing Grantaire’s old paint-stained t-shirts and loose sweatpants. It was an incongruous sight. Grantaire had only ever seen Enjolras looking smart, whatever he wore. 

He slept more, which he absolutely loathed because he felt he was missing out on so much. Whenever they left the house, he would quickly become pale, his breathing more laboured. They would have to return home sooner than he liked to. Inevitably, he ended up back in hospital, more drips, more medication, more reminders of how he would never get better.

He grew weaker, some days barely able to get out of bed. He would lie, staring at the ceiling, while Grantaire tried to pique his interest, reading to him from books that Enjolras used to love. Sometimes Enjolras would listen, occasionally asking a question or interrupting with a differing point of view. But often he would ask Grantaire to stop, saying he was tired, that his head hurt. The look of despondency on his face just broke Grantaire’s heart completely.

+++

The District Nurse was very kind. She arranged for the loan of a hospital bed to make Enjolras’s life easier. It was set up in the living room, so that the TV, the kitchenette and the bathroom were all on hand. The mattress, they were told, was supposed to be special as it was supposed to help prevent bed sores. There were special pillows as well so that Enjolras wouldn’t get a crook in his neck. 

“There’s only one thing wrong with this bed,” Enjolras said, a ghost of a smile playing over his face. Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not in it.”

+++

Grantaire hated to wake alone, but he had to admit it was easier to sleep now that Enjolras was no longer awake most of the night stirring beside him. All the same, the nurses encouraged him to take some time for himself, advising him that he would be no use to Enjolras if he made himself ill through stress.

When the subject of Respite Care was first raised, Grantaire flat out dismissed it without even mentioning it to Enjolras. He wasn’t ready to send Enjolras to a hospice, even for a day or just a few hours. He couldn’t bear to think about it.

Enjolras needed him too much. He was pretty much bedbound these days, far too weak to leave the flat. On top of that, he couldn’t stomach the idea of leaving him to the care of a stranger while he was so vulnerable. Enjolras had become very particular in his illness, clinging to routines while the rest of his life spiralled out of control through his fingers.

He liked his tea made a certain way and he knew damn well if you put the milk in before the hot water. He got upset if you used the wrong mug, or if you put water in a cup rather than a tumbler. He liked to use the plastic picnic cutlery rather than the heavier stainless steel.

He was picky about his food, refusing to eat if the carrots got mixed up with the peas. He also seemed to have a telepathic ability to tell the difference between Tesco and Sainsbury’s tomato soup, even if you hid the container, and god help you if you used Heinz!

No, Enjolras needed Grantaire. Grantaire couldn’t and wouldn’t leave him.

Except that he really did need to rest. The District Nurse, the GP and the Hospice workers all told him exactly the same thing. Enjolras did need him, but to be at the top of his game, they both needed a rest. Finally, Grantaire caved in and agreed to raise the subject with Enjolras.

Enjolras had been sick for just over three months now. He had lost an awful lot of weight in that time and was growing increasingly stubborn about what he would and wouldn’t do. Initially he agreed to go to the Hospice for a night. He could see how tired, how pale Grantaire had become. He could see those dark shadows framing his eyes, he could see the exhaustion that radiated from him. He agreed that it would be a good thing for both of them.

But when it actually came to it, when the private ambulance came to pick him up to take him to the Hospice he freaked out completely, crying and begging Grantaire not to send him away. He promised he would be good, kept apologising over and over; for being too demanding, for being ill in the first place. He begged and begged Grantaire not to send him away.

Grantaire held him tight, barely able to keep in his own tears while the staff stood by patiently, talking in calm voices. They had seen it all before, of course.

Grantaire tried to reassure him, whispering tenderly, kissing him softly. He wasn’t being sent away. It wasn’t a punishment. Grantaire loved him and would never leave him and would be with him all the way, right to the end, he promised. It was just one night.

In the end, he untied from round his neck the strip of leather with a lucky penny threaded through it, handing it to Enjolras. This was the very necklace Enjolras had given him just before he had left to go travelling round Asia on a gap year. He had taken it all round the world with him and to Enjolras’s knowledge it hadn’t been removed in at least five years. Grantaire told him to look after it for him, because if he couldn’t believe anything else, he could at least believe that Grantaire would want that back. So Enjolras took it, still pale, still frightened, and agreed to go to the hospice.

+++

Enjolras had been to the Hospice on at least two more occasions since then, just for a night or two so that Grantaire could get some rest, do some chores and have some headspace for a bit. The last time it had happened, things had not ended well. He had received a telephone call summoning him to the hospice for an interview with one of the senior members of staff. The memory of it still sent Grantaire cold to his very soul to think of it.

Enjolras had been stockpiling his pills.

By that point he was taking morphine on a regular basis, along with paracetamol to assist it in his system. Except that Enjolras had not been taking his paracetamol. When changing his bedding, the nurses had found his stash. The sheer volume of tablets had been enough to warrant an interview. The concern was that Enjolras was planning to take his own life.

Enjolras had been extremely aggressive and non-co-operational when challenged about the pills. He alleged that the very idea of taking paracetamol was completely ludicrous in light of everything else he was taking, not to mention that the cells in his body were doing a far better job at killing him than a mouthful of painkillers could ever do. That had definitely been the wrong thing to say.

“He’s not like this,” Grantaire had muttered, shaking his head. “Enjolras is… was… is strong. He would never kill himself.”

The whole thing was absurd and merely underlined the fact that it had been a bad idea to let other people take care of his husband. From now on, Grantaire would take back full responsibility. No more respite care.

+++

Grantaire had been reading aloud from The Pobble Who Has No Toes when Enjolras’s skinny fingers suddenly found his wrist.

“Will you rub my legs,” he rasped, his eyes closed, a slight frown of discomfort wrinkling his forehead. 

Grantaire set the book down on the table, reaching for the tub of E45 cream that sat on the side. Enjolras had been completely blind in his left eye for just over a week, while the sight in his right eye was getting worse every day, so now he mostly stayed with eyes closed.

“Would you like me to do your back as well?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, matching Enjolras’s volume. The man in the bed didn’t answer, merely inclining his head in the smallest gesture of affirmation.

It had been a long time since anyone had spoken above a murmur in their home. Grantaire missed the noise. Now, it simply seemed inappropriate. Enjolras’s throat was wrecked from swallowing medication, his mouth sore from the morphine. The doctors, district nurses and hospice workers all used the same calm tone and visitors to the flat also spoke quietly. Sound seemed to distress Enjolras. The television would flash in the corner but it was usually kept on mute.

Occasionally, Enjolras would ask Grantaire to play his guitar, to hum soft melodies to him, but it had been a while and now the instrument lay abandoned in the corner of the room.

Grantaire slowly and carefully drew back the blankets that encompassed Enjolras’s dwindling frame. The once strong, firm legs were now stalks of bone, muscles destroyed, the knees jutting out painfully, ankle bones awkward and sore. He took up a generous amount of the cream from the tub and, with reverential touch, he began to massage Enjolras’s legs.

Enjolras was tense, groaning at his touch, obviously relieved by the gentle motions but still sensitive. His skin was dry under Grantaire’s fingers.

“Have you any more sores I need to know about?” he enquired conversationally, trying to keep the worry out of his tone. A new mattress had been acquired last week to try and relieve the worst of the bed sores that had begun to appear on Enjolras’s back. Enjolras shook his head, breathing slowly but unable to prevent the soft whimpers of pain.

“Please don’t stop,” he whispered softly, his voice sounding so small and plaintive, completely unrecognisable from the man who had once stood fearless and angry in front of a baying mob. Grantaire bit his lip, focussing on the Enjolras in front of him, rather than the one in his memories.

“Do you want to lean forward or do you think you could roll over today?”

Enjolras attempted to shift, testing the boundaries of his creaking frame, before deciding that rolling over was definitely out of the question. Grantaire grabbed some of the many pillows, putting them on Enjolras’s thighs so he could lean forward on them, revealing the pale expanse of his back.

There was nothing to him at all. As Grantaire began to massage the cream as gently as he could, he felt every single rib poking through Enjolras’s skin. He felt like stretched paper, that he might rip and tear at any moment.

Enjolras huffed under his touch, relaxing slightly. It brought a small amount of relief to his otherwise aching bones and Grantaire tried to indulge him as often as possible. It was also good for him to move, to change position every so often. So much of his life was now spent in this bed; sleeping in it, climbing out of it, climbing into it. Grantaire had bought him a Garfield duvet cover from ebay to try and cheer it up, something that had actually resulted in a rare smile.

He worked his way slowly across Enjolras’s back, but there was no muscle to massage, having long since wasted away, a combination of cancer and lack of use. 

He worked in silence, but then silence seemed to be their normal. They had said all they needed to say to each other. 

Finally, he carefully moved Enjolras back, laying him down again, echoes of bones ringing through his fingertips. After a few moments, Enjolras’s even breathing told him the man was asleep.

+++

Enjolras hadn’t spoken in three days.

He hadn’t eaten in two.

The doctor said that once he stopped drinking, then it was time.

+++

Enjolras had died long ago. Now there was nothing left but a body; shuddering breaths pushing oxygen round the few organs that still insisted on working when really only the cancer remained.

+++

Enjolras died at twelve minutes past ten on a Thursday morning. It wasn’t a particularly monumental moment. The clocks continued to tick. Outside, a bus rumbled past and the sun half-heartedly shone hazy over the rooftops.

At the funeral, Grantaire wept. The tears came finally, where they had been hiding for the past few months. He wept not in grief but in shame. He wept at the horrifying sense of relief that it was finally over.

**Author's Note:**

> Just to say that a lot of this was drawn from actual experience, rather than plucked from thin air. I appreciate that not all people who have cancer or require end-of-life care are treated in the same way.
> 
> Title taken from Evita because I swear I sat here for ten minutes trying to think of something appropriate and all I could feel in my heart was how brightly people burned and in the end it was really all I wanted to say.


End file.
